


Ache

by esteefee



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Episode Related, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-06-02
Updated: 2009-06-02
Packaged: 2017-10-17 12:29:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/176861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esteefee/pseuds/esteefee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>These hands can also heal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ache

**Author's Note:**

> I really hate the tag for The Eye. I think it belittles the two hours of tension and violence that precede it. Anyway, here's my take.

John's wrists and finger joints ached from the recoil of the P-90, from clenching the hand grip and the LSD so hard for hours, so tightly he could still see the ridges embedded in his palms.

Rodney was sitting at the console mumbling something about getting various systems back online, and since the storm had finally passed, he suddenly wanted John to go restore the generators he'd disabled. John looked up, ready to protest, because, _Jesus,_ he was tired, but Rodney wouldn't seem look at him.

And then John caught the expression on Elizabeth's face, and suddenly realized maybe they both knew more about what had happened during the storm than he'd guessed, because he'd seen that particular expression before on Corporal Dryer's face after their raid went bad that time in Panjwai.

They were the only two that got out alive, that time.

Elizabeth's expression flickered blank again, diplomat-smooth, but John had seen it, all right. Yeah, wraith were one thing, but the Genii were human, just like them. And John had killed a lot of them today. Of course, he'd thought Elizabeth had been murdered at the time, and that Rodney was in enemy hands, but he didn't think that would cut him any slack with a civilian. Hell, John had put a bullet through one of them just inches away from her.

John flicked one last look at Rodney then left to restore the generators, his hands still aching.

:::

He swung by the infirmary afterward and found Teyla tending to Carson, who had a concussion. John bound up her wounds when she was done, putting butterflies over the worst of them. Teyla look worn down from her own battle, and he leaned in closer, but not too close, just wanting her to know he was there. Still, he felt the hum of her tension and gave her space, knowing what that was like, and settled for her weary smile when he finished bandaging her cuts. He wanted to take care of Rodney's—he'd seen the blood on his sleeve—but Rodney hadn't shown, was still too busy getting the city back online, John guessed.

Ford was following John around like a shadow, a little too much awe in his eyes, and John remembered taunting Kolya about keeping score. Well, near as John could figure it while he and Ford were zipping the bodies into bags, from the positions on the floor and adding in the fifty-five Sora had reported over the open band, John had killed 62 today.

The fifty-five were the ones that crawled the worst beneath his skin, the way he'd done it by flipping a switch. Like bugs on a zapper. Except even cleaner—no bodies, no tags, no trace. A cowardly way to kill, John figured, and a chill ran through him as he finished zipping up the last of the bags, this time for Pierson, one of their marines. Together, Ford and John set the two bags onto gurneys to wheel them to the transporter and down to the convenient stasis room they'd located early on, where their other dead waited until they might regain contact with Earth.

There was an anteroom down here with shelves where they kept personal effects, a shrine with pictures and candles, and a drawer filled with dog tags. John added Pierson's and McKenzie's to the tangled pile.

The room was cold, and he rubbed his hands together, leaving as quickly as he came.

:::

John leaned on the doorframe of Elizabeth's office and stared at the top of her head.

"We should send them their dead," he said abruptly, just to see her head jerk up, her eyes narrow. Yeah, he'd been right about that look. At least she didn't appear half-drowned anymore, and seemed to have recovered her steel. Sometimes it was easy to see she grew up in a military family.

"We'll do that," she said, leaning back in her chair. "Teyla and Ford have already taken Sora down to the holding cells. And I'm almost done with my account. For the report."

He hoped she didn't expect him to finish his so soon. He needed time to let the edges dull a little. It wasn't like he was going to lose any of the faces. Not for a long time to come.

"How much did Kolya tell you?" he asked and shrugged, "while it was going on, I mean."

"We heard it all—he kept the radio on. He didn't seem to think we were much of a security risk."

"Guess he was wrong about that." Rodney had filled John in a little about how Elizabeth had outfoxed Kolya into deserting Atlantis.

"And about you, as well." The look flickered behind her eyes again, like a shadow through calm waters. "You should get changed into some dry clothes."

"Yeah."

"Our people will start gating back soon. Rodney has all the critical systems back up and said he was going to go raid the mess." She smiled wryly.

"Sounds like a plan."

He didn't see Rodney in the mess, but there were signs he'd been there—half a pot of fresh, hot coffee on the side table, and an open drawer of MREs that had obviously been raided for Rodney's particular favorites. John grabbed a couple labeled as beef stew and made his way to Rodney's quarters.

John should be going to his own. He should get out of his wet tac vest and damp uniform, take a hot shower, put on his softest sweats and crash out on his bed. Maybe rub some Tiger Balm onto his damned shoulder, which was sore from his hasty impact with the deck below the grounding station.

And his hands were still stiff with cold.

But Rodney had refused to meet his eyes ever since this whole thing was over, had barely spoken to him except to fill him in on what had happened in jittering, disjointed glimpses, and John needed to know he was okay, at least enough to get some rest, to wind down for now—Rodney was never any good turning off after a crisis. John could maybe help him with that, if Rodney would let him. If he could stand having John around.

Hell, at least he could let John take care of that cut; the last he had seen, Rodney had wrapped a half-assed bandage _around_ his jacket, like that would take care of it. John doubled back to grab a spare first aid kit.

It was weird going to Rodney's quarters in the middle of the night without having to worry about bumping into anyone, without having to sneak. He just walked right up to the door and knocked. After a moment the door slid open and there stood Rodney, an awkward shadow hovering in his darkened room.

"Oh, it's you," he said flatly and stepped back. The glow of his laptop revealed a half-eaten MRE and a cup of coffee. Rodney went back to his desk and sat down, his shoulder turned and hunched against the curve of his cheek.

"Yeah. Me. Carson's got a concussion, so I thought I'd do the first aid," John said, holding up the first aid kit as if he needed an excuse to be here. But maybe he did, because Rodney was still hunched over like he— _for chrissake_ —expected John to hit him or something. This was worse than John had thought it would be, and he reduced his expectations from crawling into bed together and warming each other up to just dressing Rodney's wound and getting the hell out.

"Let me take care of that and I'll get out of your hair." His voice was maybe a little colder than he meant it to be, because Rodney jerked.

"Forgive me for not being more," Rodney waved his hand, "hospitable, but I'm tired, Major. I've had a difficult day pulling miracles and _lightning_ and what-have-you out of my ass," he said before offering his arm.

John dropped the first aid kit on the desk and yanked off his tac vest finally, sighing to be free of the weight at last. He started to crouch down by the chair, but his knees cracked painfully and he said, "Hey, think maybe we can do this over there?" He pointed at the bed.

Rodney nodded stiffly and moved over to the bed while John waved on the light. Christ, Rodney looked like hell—skin pale except for a couple of pink spots high on his cheeks, a little sweaty, and a good scruff of shadow coming in. Looking at him still made John's heart turn right over though, every damned time.

John pulled the chair over to the bed and took Rodney's arm. "Let's get this off—jeez, Rodney, you'd never have earned a merit badge with this crap," he said, unwinding the mess of a field dressing Rodney had applied over his jacket.

"Thank you very much," Rodney muttered, "but I had better things to do with my time than tramp about in _nature_ getting bug bites and sleeping on rocks with a bunch of under-washed pre-adolescents."

"Mmmm. Campfires and s'mores and circle-jerks."

Rodney started to respond, but then yelped when the last of the bandage pulled free with a moist sound. "Ow! Ow-ow-ow!"

"Sheesh! I'm sorry—"

Rodney yanked his arm away and shot John such a look of hurt that John's stomach plummeted straight to his boots. It was such a stupid thing, such a stupid, small thing to lay on the shit-pile that was his day, but somehow knowing he'd hurt Rodney on top of it all was enough to make the cold ache in his hands and his gut come flaring back ten-fold.

"God." He sat back and took a deep breath, the weight on his chest unbearable. He almost didn't register Rodney's voice saying miserably, "Oh, I know you think I'm a wimp and a coward, Major, but not all of us can be shining examples of courageous derring-do."

"What?" John looked up.

Rodney jutted his chin. "Just say it—I know how disappointed you are in me that I caved so easily and revealed our plan to Kolya."

There were some times when Rodney's absolute self-centeredness really took the fucking cake. John could almost hate him for it if he didn't know how much of it came from Rodney being so damned uncertain that anyone really cared about him. Near as John could figure it, the only person ever to really take care of Rodney had been Rodney himself, and that nearly broke John's heart to think about.

So, John just took a breath and said hoarsely, "I'm not disappointed. Never—I wasn't thinking that. I was thinking what a shit-heel I am to hurt you again when that's the last thing I came here to do. I was thinking, Jesus, I've been doing nothing but hurt people—kill people—all fucking day long." John stopped talking then because he lost the last words, broken on straining notes the way his voice still did sometimes as if he were twelve years old, and he clenched his hands together, relishing the ache this time because it kept him from doing something ridiculous like crying like a goddamned baby.

"Hey." A warm hand touched John's shoulder, bled heat right through his shirt, and he looked into Rodney's eyes. "Don't—they came _here_ , it wasn't your—"

John clenched his jaw and glanced away again.

"Okay, okay...sorry, I was an ass and jumped to conclusions. Not my usual—I pride myself on better logic than that."

John could see the effort Rodney was putting into it—into playing it normal—and he gave him a quick smile of thanks and said, "So, let's just get this done, because, God, I'm tired. Aren't you tired?"

"Tired. Yes. Very." Rodney held up his arm, eyes firm on John's, with so much trust shining there that John felt warmed straight through.

It took a while to get the long cut cleaned and dressed. It was deep enough in the middle that it could have used some stitches—it would probably scar—but it was a little late for that, the edges already scabbed over and curling down, so John taped them as close as he could with careful, careful hands, smeared antibiotic ointment over every exposed inch, and taped gauze over the whole thing, then bound tape over the gauze. It would hold for the night, at least, and Carson could do a better job in the morning.

In the morning, when their people would return, and they could begin repairing the city, and help the Athosians repair their village, and then they would hold services for poor Pierson and McKenzie.

For now, all John needed to worry about was stripping off all his damp clothing and crawling into Rodney's arms, and tucking his aching hands under Rodney's clean, worn T-shirt, warming them on the soft swell of his belly, and when Rodney bent and kissed John lightly, once on his lips, once on his forehead, and rubbed his cheek there, John knew there was one place safe. One person who understood and wasn't afraid of who he was. And that was plenty.

He wasn't cold anymore.

  


_End._  



End file.
